Cold Sweat
by CameronZinner
Summary: A teenage boy doesn't simply agree to a day out shopping for clothes unless he gets something in return. For Mason, that return is a chance to brush shoulders with his girlfriend's Dad. And he gets plenty more than he bargains for. Mason/Jerry one shot. M for HOT SLASH and some explicit language. Please review!


**Disclaimer: **This is an impromptu fic I put together one night because I was bored (it's a little different from my usual style). Enjoy! Please review! And I don't own Wizards of Waverly Place or the characters and have no affiliation with the Disney Channel, in case you were wondering.

* * *

A teenage boy doesn't simply agree to a day out shopping for clothes unless he gets something in return. For Mason, that return is a chance to brush shoulders with his girlfriend's Dad. And he gets plenty more than he bargains for.

Whenever Carrington's has a sale, the Russo's chase after every last deal and bargain like a pack of hounds - make that a pack of self-proclaimed _class_y hounds, because they refuse to call themselves cheap. But you wouldn't just flat out call a Russo stingy unless you wanted a loud Manhattan talking-to.

With the _Wizard Of The Year_ banquet just four days away, Theresa suggests Jerry take Alex and Mason out for some new clothes.

"Everyone's going to be looking at the two of them," she says proudly to her husband at the door before he gets into the driver's seat. "Don't be so cheap and buy them something nice."

The dry pizza and rocky-road ice-cream before their shopping excursion do not sit so well with Mason. By the time the three of them walk into the Carrington's men's department, his stomach is doing barrel rolls. It doesn't help that the smells of cardboard boxes and freshly pressed blouses make him nauseous but all he can do now is grin and bear it.

Mason scans the racks of suits and dress pants, and then he wonders where Alex could be - but he stops worrying, because if he thinks she'd ever be genuinely concerned about his clothing choices then he's terribly mistaken.

"How about these?" Jerry says from behind a rack, holding up three pairs of trousers.

Mason glances up at him and nods his head so slightly, afraid that an ill-timed flick of his eyes would give Jerry the wrong idea.

Since meeting Alex Russo's parents, Mason knew his interest laid solely in her father. He doesn't bother denying it. But there are horror stories he hears repeatedly of girls dumping their boyfriends after catching them sleeping with their dads and with this in mind, he doesn't dare say a word.

Jerry is _hot_. _Smoking _hot. There's no debate about that. Of course, his middle-aged, married-man physique could never compete against his sons, but there's something about how bluntly handsome he is - with his strong boxy face and the scruffs of hair to match - that Mason finds so utterly irresistible. He's spent days in his room with his eyes closed for concentration, jacking off to a manufactured image in his mind of Jerry's manhood. The fantasies persist, some so intense that they might send him over the edge if he thinks too hard about it.

Somewhere in between scanning the racks for suits and staring at the mannequins, Mason manages to talk himself out of his attraction and dismisses it for hormones. He knows he's at the least bisexual, so there is hope he could leave Alex and find a guy. Maybe a British guy. He thinks they'd have better chemistry, being from the same country and all.

"Let's go try these on," Jerry says, and Mason is startled to see that he's standing right in front of him. In these situations, Alex manages to snake her way into the conversation and release the awkwardness like air from a balloon, but she doesn't show up this time.

"Where's Alex?" Mason asks, glancing over Jerry's shoulder. And there she comes, strolling on over with that iconic swagger of hers. He's a little relieved to see her. If she didn't show up sooner, he might have jumbled his words and made a complete fool of himself. Now _that _would have been embarrassing.

Alex gives both of them a bleary look, and then crosses her arms.

"What are we standing here for?" she says.

"Mason and I are going to try on these dress pants. You wait here," Jerry says, and then he's rudely cut off by the crackle of an overhead speaker.

"_Attention shoppers,_" a woman's monotone voice echoes, "_All shoes are on sale for up to 40% off in the women's department_-"

Alex doesn't need to hear the rest of it. Because as soon as she hears the words _shoes _and _sale _gloriously crafted into the same sentence, she darts off in the direction of the bargain and waves her hands as if to say 'I'll find you later'.

Jerry leads the way to the fitting room and behind him, Mason cowers, though he's glad he has the liberty to enjoy an unobstructed view of his ass.

"We want to try these on," Jerry tells the fitting room attendant, who looks like she'd eaten a bucket load of lemon rind and her face settled on a permanent scowl. She signals her hand to the left and they follow the direction of claw-like fingers.

The corridor is long and narrow and there are at least fifteen white, lackluster stall doors. Jerry keeps walking until they reach the end, and by now Mason is just a tad confused.

With a push of his hand, the very last stall door swings open and Jerry sidesteps inside. Mason stands there, now more perplexed than ever, because every other stall is occupied and the pants he needs to try on are not in his hands.

"Should I wait outside till you're all done-" Mason says, but he promptly loses all authority in his voice when Jerry flashes a sly smile his way.

"No, you're not going anywhere," Jerry says, so suavely that Mason cannot get himself to look away.

"Why? Are we going to share one?"

When he asks the question, Mason is so sure the answer would be a flat out _no_ - so sure that when he speaks the words, he has the cockiest grin on his face.

But he was never expecting a _yes_. Jerry has to say it a couple of times before the gears click in Mason's head.

"Share one?" Mason asks, and his heart rattles like a broken alarm clock inside his chest.

"Yeah. I've got more experience with suit pants than you, so I can help you find the one that fits."

Mason's breath hitches in his throat and his 'okay' sounds more like a cough than a word. He steps into the fitting room and it is only then that he realizes how cramped it really is. The walls are blindingly white and the front door is covered in a streaky, body-length mirror. Never has he been more grateful that he isn't claustrophobic.

Jerry maneuvers his arm behind Mason to shut the door and locks it with two reassuring 'clicks'.

There is barely room to move - let alone breathe. The two of them are practically - no, _literally_ touching. And as if their proximity is not enough to send Mason off the edge, Jerry pulls off his t-shirt in one fluid swoop of his hands and reveals his bare chest.

Mason springs a boner at the sight and he isn't in the least bit surprised. A cold sweat prickles him in places he's never sweat before and now he's at a loss for coherent words.

Jerry's upper body would've been quite _ho-hum_ had it belonged to anyone else. But this is Mr. _Russo _he's looking at. He's slightly pudgy, yes, but his pecs are thick and stocky enough to be mistaken for muscle. And just as Mason had suspected, he's covered in hair. Not the dark, thick kind you'd find on a retro Playgirl model but the kind that covers the skin like a teasing see-through layer.

Nipples stare like two eyes and something in Mason urges him to stare right back.

There's no six-pack to be found, but if you looked hard enough you might spot an ab or two.

Mason is surprised Jerry never found employment in the porn industry, and if that doesn't make him a certified DILF then Mason doesn't know what would.

"Are just gonna stare at each other's faces or what?" Jerry asks, then breaks into another smile.

Mason is aroused and horrified at the same time - a dangerous combination. Was it obvious he was looking? Did he look too long? Maybe it was the drool... But how could anyone blame him? Jerry's doing a private strip show for crying out loud. And then it registers: why would he take his shirt off if he's only trying on pants?

"Do I need to take my shirt off too?" Mason asks, trying his best to avoid any eye-contact with Mr. Russo's hairy chest.

"Yeah...that would help. You can't really tell how tight the pants are if you don't," Jerry says, and then after a long pause, speaks again. "You'll understand what I mean later."

Mason follows suite and pulls the bottom of his t-shirt over his head. And when he chucks it to a side, he spots Jerry with his arms lifted, his nose sniffing each of his hairy pits.

"This deodorant's working great," Jerry says, almost to himself. "It's supposed to be watermelon or some kinda fruit. I don't remember, but it's edible. Wanna try?"

Everything inside Mason tells him to leave. One wrong move and his attraction will shamefully unravel.

"Umm..." Mason hums, and it's all he can manage to say with the declining supply of oxygen in his lungs. Every look at Jerry makes him dangerously out of breath.

"Go on," Jerry says, and then he lifts his arms over his head like he's Mr. July posing for a bodybuilder calendar. "Don't be shy."

After much hesitation, Mason lowers his head till it's about half a foot away from Jerry's chest, but he can't smell the watermelon, nor any kind of fruit. Instead, he smells pure, masculine sweat. And lots of it.

"You might need to rub it a bit with your hands to get the smell out. Like a scratch and sniff card," Jerry says.

Mason leans over more. The last thing he wants to appear is eager, so as cautiously as he can, he puts both of his hands on Jerry's chest.

A surge of pre-cum threatens to make its exit in his pants. He's never touched Jerry, and if he's ever allowed again, he'd hold him all day. But he feels the eyes bead down on him, and if he takes too long Jerry would get the wrong idea.

"Go on," Jerry says, sounding a little impatient. "Lick it."

Hairs brush against his cheek. A sudden confidence ignites and Mason sticks his tongue out, inching forward till it makes contact with Jerry's hot skin. He shudders, fending off a premature orgasm by clenching his toes and it barely works.

Mason licks the hairy chest again, and while he can't taste any fruit, he tastes briny man-sweat. Like an eager dog, he laps up a few more beads of it before pulling away to meet Jerry's gaze.

"Did you taste it?" Jerry says, beaming.

"Yeah..." Mason says, but Jerry swiftly cuts him off.

"Is yours edible too?"

"I don't think-"

But it's too late, because by the time Mason finishes his sentence, Jerry has his hands shamelessly cupping his pecs. And they don't just stay there. They move, sweeping around the muscle of his upper body and to his spine, then back again to trail down to his abs. Jerry's licks are violent and hungry as his tongue reaches the edge of Mason's armpit and backtracks to his left nipple.

Mason can't do anything but put his hands down at his sides and hope he doesn't moan too loudly. He quivers, debating on whether or not he should let Jerry know he isn't wearing any deodorant.

"Mmm...," Jerry says, his tongue snaking up to his collar bones. When he finally pulls away, something in his eyes has changed. "Alex'll get mad if we take too long in here," he adds.

Mason is speechless and waits for further direction because he can barely function on his own.

Jerry chucks off his shoes and socks and with nimble fingers he undoes the buckle in his belt. A thumb hooks into his pants and he pulls them down, and while Mason tries so hard to look away, he doesn't succeed.

Mr. Russo's boxers look painfully tight on his body, outlining his bulge so finely against the taut cotton fabric that it barely serves any purpose. Mason catches tasty glimpses and his dick goes haywire in his pants. Like the long-awaited climax, Jerry slips his fingers into the band of the boxers and they drop to his ankles.

All Mason sees is a flash of skin, and then he instinctively turns around.

He saw it. He's convinced he saw it. The holy grail: Jerry's cock. He doesn't witness it in detail the first time but he remembers its shape, and that is more than enough.

"Woah," Mason says, pretending to be appalled by Jerry's blatant display with what little acting skills he's acquired over the years. "Mr. Russo...do we really have to get naked?"

"Yeah," Jerry says nonchalantly. "If you wanna see if the pants really fit then you need to try them without anything on."

Mason is still turned towards the wall of the stall but his eyes pull him to turn around. And he does.

Jerry's dick is by no means average. In fact, if Mason knew how long it really was, he would have tried to get in his pants months ago. For someone as stocky as Mr. Russo, the cock is a pleasant surprise. It's _at least _seven - no -_ eight _inches, rigid, with its base covered in the same dark and curly hair on Jerry's chest - curved every so slightly to the right. Thick and gloriously hairy - just how Mason had imagined it to be.

If he can take a picture of it, he would. But he feels the weight of Jerry's eyes, waiting for him to strip down.

Mason's shoes and socks come off with ease and so do his pants. Like every time he'd been petrified during gym class, Mason stands around for a few moments in his boxers before pulling them slowly as he can, staring at the wall, and to his horror his erection springs free.

His blood runs chill in his veins. This is it, Mason thinks_. Betrayed by the boner._

But thankfully, Jerry isn't facing him. He's turned around completely. Mason immediately feels indebted to whatever divine power had given him the extra time to soften up his dick, but it's only temporary. Because Jerry is bent over, putting his socks into his shoes, and his hairy asshole is brazenly exposed.

When he swiftly turns around and straightens up, Jerry's eyes fall directly on Mason's hard-on. It's difficult to tell whether he's appalled or intrigued, though Mason knows by the twinkle in his eyes that something is certainly going through his head.

"Uh-oh," Jerry says with hands on his hips, nodding his chin at Mason's quivering member. "That's not going to work. When you try on your pants your dick need to be soft or else you might end up buying the wrong size."

"What should I do?" Mason asks, and by now he's quaking with fear and an impending orgasm.

"What else? Rub it out."

"In front of you?" Mason asks, incredulous, wondering for the fourteenth time that day if all of this is just a dream.

"We're both men, aren't we?" Jerry says, and Mason is turned on even more. "Don't be shy."

Mason has never jacked off in front anyone unless his pet goldfish counts. But he can't back out now or else he'd be at risk of looking like a wimp.

He hesitates and wraps his dick with his right palm and just stands there, letting the cock twinge in his grip. Mason fixes his gaze right on the head of his penis and pumps it slowly, though he only gets a good fifteen seconds of masturbation in before Jerry interrupts.

"I just realized," Jerry says with a '_how-stupid-could-I-be_' look on his face. "If you jizz you'll make a mess on the floor. Do we have anything you could cum in around here..." he trails off and looks around the stall, then back at Mason with a defeated expression.

"What about my mouth?" Jerry shrugs, and his face lights up. "It would be an easy clean-up. Yeah, my mouth. That's a good idea."

Mason dies and enters the afterlife when he hears the words. Like the sight of his girlfriend's dad's naked body isn't enough, he's about to get a blowjob from him too.

Jerry drops to his knees like he's been struck down and Mason wants to collapse alongside him as well. A rough hand squeezes his dick and he shudders.

Everything happens so quickly.

Jerry pumps his shaft with long, smooth strokes, stopping only to lick the head. Mason squirms.

The blowjob officially kicks off when Mr. Russo's mouth practically inhales the length of his dick, and it only takes a few bobs before he's fallen into the rhythm.

Masons curls his toes as the blowjob increases in intensity and every so often he steals a look downwards to remind himself he isn't dreaming.

Jerry slurps away like he's done this a million times. Mason wishes he could last longer but two minutes is enough before he feels the tension reach a precipice. And when he finally erupts, Jerry doesn't pull off.

Mason utters a string of incoherent, breathy curses, shooting spurt after spurt of his seed right into the back of Jerry's mouth.

Mr. Russo pulls away and the sticky white juices trail down his lips and dribble to his chin. Just when Mason thinks he's down for the count, another wave of his load shoots Jerry point blank in his hairy chest.

With his eyes closed, Jerry rubs the cum into his upper body like it's expensive lotion and deliberately gets it caught in the hairs. It's peculiar, yes, but Mason is nonetheless turned on. Jerry goes in a few more times to drink up any leftovers, but for the most part the blowjob is over.

And like none of it had ever happened, Jerry stands up and casually wipes the cum off his lips with his index finger.

"Let's try on your pants now," he says, and Mason is taken aback by how quickly Jerry's recovered from his post-orgasmic bliss. "Turn around so I can get the measurements correct."

In a daze, Mason turns around and faces the streaky mirror of the stall door. The fabric of trousers brush up against his bare ass.

Jerry's hands sweep across the small of Mason's back, taking quick measurements and then spreading the pants out again.

"Mason, can you bend over just a little..."

He follows the instructions and pushes his ass out as far as it can go.

"A little more...more...okay, perfect."

There is little Mason can discern from the mirror, seeing as the majority of what he's witnessing is his own naked body and the trace of a distant hairy chest.

"Uh-oh," Jerry says.

"What's wrong," Mason whispers.

"I think I might have lost a button in your...ass."

"But I don't feel any-"

Jerry sighs. "It's pretty deep in there. Might even cause an infection. Let me see if I can get it out..."

Mason lurches forward, utterly taken aback by the touch of two fingers pushing into his asshole. But he can't show that he enjoys it. He'd be a goner.

The fingers push in past each ring of muscle and swivel around. Mason swears he feels a tongue press against his entrance - though he could be mistaking it for wet finger tips - until finally, Jerry comes up for air.

"Nope," he hears Jerry say. "I need something longer."

Mason tenses up. The only thing longer than a finger would be his...no...he _wouldn't_. If the fitting room attendant finds him bent over like this she'd definitely call the cops.

"Here," Jerry says, and then stands up. "I'll just use my dick."

And before there is even time to react, Jerry plunges it in so swiftly, placing two hands on Mason's sides, and thrusts with brute force.

Mason whimpers.

"Now we're talking!" Jerry says, panting and his hips bucking wild. "Fuck, it's pretty deep in there...Mmmm..._Oh...oh...OH...Fuck..._"

As much as he wants to moan, Mason doesn't dare. Jerry is trying his best to save him from an anal infection and making noises would give him the wrong idea. But in his head, he shrieks like a twenty-year-old woman.

"Quick, Mason," Jerry hisses, pulling his sweaty dick out and clenching it in his hand. "Catch it in your mouth!"

Mason drops to his knees with no time to lose and pushes the dick into his mouth, bobbing along the shaft until he hears Jerry's penultimate yelp.

"_FUCK Mason!_"

The cock shoots a load right into his mouth and he tries his best to guzzle it all down in one go but it's just too much. Mason chokes and pulls off but the cock continues to unleash its fury until its final tremble, spurting warm streaks across his face.

They are both out of breath.

"Did you get the button out, Mr. Russo?" Mason asks.

"The button? Yeah."

Mason stands up, dizzy, and just when he thinks it's over he is pulled flush against Jerry's body. Lips press against his for a heavy kiss and when a tongue slips into his mouth he almost forgets to breathe.

"That's how we say thanks in America," Jerry says after pulling away, and then glances around the stall to his clothes strewn about.

They redress in silence and Mason follows his lead, though something still doesn't make sense.

"What about the pants?" Mason asks.

"The pants? What pants?" Jerry replies, and his expression quickly softens up. "Oh, the pants. Yeah, I don't really like the color."

The two of them walk out of the stall and are greeted by Alex, leaning against a clearance rack with her purse in hand.

"What took you guys so long?" she asks, but the question is left unanswered. Just when Mason thinks he's avoided disaster, he sees her squint her eyes in suspicion. Her gaze is drawn to the corner of his lip.

"You have something on your face," she says, and Mason knows the jig is up. The cold sweat returns.

Alex swipes the cum off his face and Mason understands by the way her eyes are still squinted that he's a goner.

"I think it's ice-cream," she says, licking it off her fingers.

Mason knows he has fast legs. He can run if he has to. Catch a plane back to Britain and change his name. Grow a mustache perhaps. The possibilities are endless.

"What flavor did you have again?" she asks inquisitively.

"I forgot what it's called."

But to his surprise, Alex grins.

"Remind me to get this next time," she says, reaching over to Mason's face to see if she can find anymore. "It's really good."

**The End**


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